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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290990">A Day in a Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zara/pseuds/Zara_Zara'>Zara_Zara</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sound of You and Me [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>1917 (Movie 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputee Blake, Blake Lives, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Music, Post-War, painter!Will</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:35:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,764</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zara_Zara/pseuds/Zara_Zara</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of William Schofield and Thomas Blake after the war; all is well. </p><p>This is a sequel of sorts to my other fic "The Sound of Blue."</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tom Blake/William Schofield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sound of You and Me [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1674967</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>50</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Day in a Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi! I didn't expect to write anything after finishing "The Sound of Blue" but after the response I received from it I decided to write this little one-shot. If you like music-accompaniment while reading, I suggest "To Build a Home" by the cinematic orchestra with this one-shot. I also liked Sufjan's Steven's "Death with Dignity." I hope you enjoy. </p><p>I didn't edit much, apologies for any mistakes.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Within the hours before the sun rises, Tom stares up at the ceiling and he recognizes that it is peaceful. </p><p> </p><p>He was never a light sleeper, nor was he one to remain awake after some nightmare or other. But the war took more than just his arm; it disfigured his sense of peace---turning it into something imperfect and patchy at best. By no means is it completely ruined. Peace just manifests itself differently than it used to when he was younger and without the experience he has now. He is so much more aware of its presence now; it is very loud when peace is present. Loud, not as in the way that a bomb may sound; but, loud in the way that rain’s fairy-knuckled knocks on a window may announce itself to a sleeping person’s consciousness.<em> Pitter-patter</em>.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Pitter </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tom hears peace in the quietness of the city outside; everyone is asleep.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Patter</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will is fast asleep beside him; for once, no nightmares terrorize him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Pitter</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Tom hears his heart thrum a steady beat; it’s almost a visceral feeling to hear it and be aware of it. He tries to picture what it must look like with a vague memory of an illustration he saw in some book he had stumbled upon some time ago. It was an ink drawing and the lines had been thick and numerous, shading in the parts that needed shading to make the illustration pop out more. He tries to picture his heart as a red beating thing spewing out blood to every part of his body, but he just sees the drawing: it’s paper thin and delicate. Oh so tearable. </p><p> </p><p>How did he not die? </p><p> </p><p>Was he just very lucky?</p><p> </p><p>Tom’s breath hitches when Will reaches for him in his sleep; his arm simply stretches over Tom but stays there as a comforting weight. Will snores softly. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Patter</em>
</p><p> </p><p>Yep, pitter-patter.  </p><p> </p><p>Tom slips back into sleep. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p>Tom wakes up to the savory smell of cooking bacon and eggs. He shuffles out of bed and follows his nose straight to the perpetrator of all these delightful breakfast smells. He presses his forehead directly between Will’s shoulder blades and waits there, blinking away the sleepiness. </p><p> </p><p>“Ah, so you’re finally awake. I thought I’d have to put a piece of bacon directly under your nose in order to wake you,” Will’s bony shoulder blades move as he does something with the pans that make the sizzling sound louder. </p><p> </p><p>“You can do it now, I won’t object,” Tom lifts his head and leans his hip against the kitchen counter so that he can look at Will, “Although, I would very much appreciate it if it were in my mouth. You know, more pleasurable that way,” he winks and grins the grin that Will always rolls his eyes at. </p><p> </p><p>Which is exactly what he does: rolling his eyes but looking fond all the same he says, “You don’t need to tell me twice.” He accepts the plate that Tom hands him and serves the food directly from the pan, dividing it so the next portion can go on another plate. </p><p> </p><p>They sit in companionable silence as they dig into their breakfast; the fresh morning sun streams into their small window, turning everything it touches a warm golden hue. The freshly cut orange sitting in the middle of the table looks like a flower made of jewels. Tom eagerly collects a slice and bites into the juicy citrus sweet; life is good. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>Tom lingers by their recently cleared kitchen table with a broad sketchbook in front of him. He has a handful of pencils scattered on the table, a set of watercolors, and a cup of water arrayed before him. </p><p> </p><p>Will passes by, squeezing his shoulder approvingly as he heads to the record player to select one of their many records. </p><p> </p><p>With the song filtering gently into the room, Tom reaches for green and gently slides it across the paper where the summer field is meant to be. The pale color is ghostly and soft as an eggshell; it is very calming. It’s only been a week since Will had given him the set of colors and sketchbook. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>He remembers saying: “Will, I appreciate the gift but I can’t draw for shit. About the only things I can draw are stick figures and the sun—-but even then, I do it poorly. My suns look like squashed spiders.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>In that gentle and firm way of his, Will had nudged the water colors closer to him, “That’s nothing a little practice can’t fix...You can always try.”</em>
</p><p> </p><p>And try he will. </p><p> </p><p>Tom has decided that on the days that they have free, he is going to try and use the water colors Will has given him. </p><p> </p><p>So, here he is. Now reaching for the blue and observing how that affects the shades of green he had settled onto the paper. Will has told him about how the colors have sounds to him, that a bright blue can sound like thunder and that a deep purple can sound like tea spilling out of a kettle. Tom attempts to hear the same things when he makes a deep turquoise appear on his paper, but all he can think about is how it looks very alive. Like the sort of color hidden in the most animated part of a forest. It makes him think of the stories that may be kept there. Dimly,  images of a sword-in-the-stone start to appear in his head; it gleams invitingly between all that foliage. </p><p> </p><p>Abruptly, Tom’s hand moves to sketch Excalibur out in the middle of his watercolor painting. With a pleased hum he continues adding color; a story unfolds behind his eyes and he pictures distant castles, blinking owls, and electric bursts of magic.</p><p> </p><p>Absently, he realizes that at some point or other Will had quietly joined him with his own canvas and oil paints. </p><p> </p><p>They quietly work on their projects with one ear on the music from the record player and another on the sounds of the colors. </p><p> </p><p>***</p><p> </p><p>The day passes by in a blink of an eye and then it’s evening. The sun is just beginning to set and Tom and Will return to their flat after a small walk outside. They have dinner and break the freshly baked bread that they bought during their pleasant walk outside. After a spot of tea and biscuits that Tom’s mother sent them, the two of them curl up in bed where conversation softly rises and falls; like waves gently lapping at the shore. </p><p> </p><p>Tom’s not sure what brings him to speak an idea that he’s had in his head, but he does:</p><p> </p><p>“What’s the sound of my name?”</p><p> </p><p>Will gives him a confused look, “Thomas Blake.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” Tom laughs softly and realizes he needs to be clearer, “You hear things in colors and I was wondering if you heard things in other...things?” Tom finishes lamely. He wonders if he made any sense at all right there or if he just made himself look incredibly daft. </p><p> </p><p>“Hmm,” Will faintly hums and then rolls away from Tom’s grasp so that he can lay on his back. Tom immediately misses having him closer but settles for running his gaze over Will’s profile; he doesn’t think he will ever tire of it. A couple minutes of silence pass where Will doesn’t say anything, but Tom doesn’t speak because he can tell he’s thinking. </p><p> </p><p>Eyes fixed on the ceiling, and as if he’s tasting the words as he speaks, Will carefully says, “Tom is circular like a spot on a fawn.”</p><p> </p><p>“Come again?” Tom teases, “What does that mean?”</p><p> </p><p>Will pinches the bridge of his nose, and a faint hint of pink appears on his cheeks; with a start Tom realizes he’s embarrassed, “I don’t know,” Will admits, “It’s a soft word. You asked for the sound of your name and that’s what came up for me.”</p><p> </p><p>Still teasing, “So you think I’m soft?” </p><p> </p><p>“No,” Will glances over and then ends up turning back to his side to face Tom, “Well, yes. It’s not a bad thing, you know,” he runs a hand through Tom’s hair and his thumb travels down to run soft circles on Tom’s cheek like an ice-skater. </p><p> </p><p>Not quite ready to let it go he asks, “Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“To remain soft and kind after all we’ve been through, I think it reflects on your strength.”</p><p> </p><p>At a loss for words, Tom simply says, “Oh,” and then he remembers himself, “Thanks.” They settle in a quiet punctuated by their soft breaths until Tom says, “What about you? What does your name sound like, Will?” Tom starts to think about the things that “Will” sounds like. To him “Will” sounds like his laughter that’s rarer than he would like; it’s the way Tom’s hand slots into Will’s when they are in the privacy of their home; the warm and sturdy white bread that Will always give him the first slice of; the paint that lingers on his fingers like stubborn flowers; the way that those blue eyes look at him with patience and love. </p><p> </p><p>Will genuinely looks surprised to hear Tom ask him, “My name? I don’t know,” he trails off into silent contemplation. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s your name, you have to know,” Tom lightly kicks him under the covers. </p><p> </p><p>Will gives him that patient look again, “I suppose it’s like snow; it’s cold.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom inwardly reels at that, “I beg to differ.” He can’t believe Will would think of himself as cold. He’s the warmest person Tom knows. Sure, he can be mistaken to be a cold individual; that’s why it’s a mistaken appraisal after all. Once someone gets to know Will (like Tom did), they see that he’s really all soft inside---soft like Tom. </p><p> </p><p>Will raises a brow in amusement, “Do you now?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes, you are soft.”</p><p> </p><p>Now it’s Will’s turn to be surprised, “What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yes you are. I mean, haven’t you seen snow fall? When it’s Christmas Eve and you see the snow fall, it’s all soft and magical...That’s you.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t follow.”</p><p> </p><p>Tom chews on his lip and then he tells him everything he had thought of at first. He tells him about his laugh; their hands interwined; his bread; the paint; his eyes. “All of that, that’s you. And I love all of it.”</p><p> </p><p>"Thank you," Tom delights in the way that that makes Will's eyes glow, "I love you too."</p><p> </p><p>Pressing their foreheads together, they slip into sleep; it is peaceful. </p><p> </p><p>It starts to rain outside; <em>pitter patter. </em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Let me know if you liked it X)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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